(everything still wet from last night’s howl and i might be courting rain again)
15 silent mourning doves top a tree,
warmish wet and foggy,
blue jay, redtailed hawk, crows —
Unspoken almost spoken:
the rain’s coming, soon.
Truly now the air grows dense with it.
How those same words get me in the gut again and again.
You know the ones.
The ones that repeat the dream.
I don’t think we’ve said all the things we need to say yet.
Or yet tread right out onto the high wire of open sky.
(Every time we start it rains.)
Press on into a warm and weirdish winter.
The grass can’t see the season —
looks fall and smells spring —
and the wild blue thorns bleed us as we run into the woods,
coyotes wailing at the 10am tuesday siren.
They sound close and many,
and the alarm goes on too long.
Their relative strength, daunting.
(into the much. goldeneyes on the pond. mergansers, kingfisher, mallards, sparrows, chickadees, cardinals, canada geese. birds all by the river where it feels like spring.)
fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)